Sister, Savior [Prose]

"It's okay, Piper. It's going to be okay."
With every disaster I've had to face, my memory holds Rylee as more vivid than anything. She's the warmth that surrounded me, keeping me from shaking like fall leaves facing a hurricane. My older sister made it her personal mission to keep me safe from everything, even myself.
"Hold on tight. I won't let you go."
We fight, screaming until our throats are sore and tears have dried across our cheeks. We disagree, using a passive aggressive silence to demonstrate our displeasure. We laugh and love and live at one another's sides.
Sometimes, though, I think Rylee forgets to live her own life. She's so worried about taking care of poor, fragile Piper that she doesn't work hard enough keeping herself together. She's so strong, to the point where I can't see passed the walls she puts up, sometimes. Is she a warrior, fighting for a better life...or a toy soldier, playing the role she's cursed herself with, forevermore?
Rylee knows not to force me, the way our parents always tried to. 'Speak up, Piper. Don't be shy.' Because that always helps a girl get over her social awkwardness. She doesn't push me, but there are gentle nudges, urging me to be myself, but actually let someone see it. There's a story behind the shy walls I put up, just like there's a story to Rylee's strength.
I guess that's why I chose to work as a medical examiner, and she chose detective. We're still close, in the same building even, but there are a few floors between the basement morgue and Rylee's desk. Sometimes we work on the same cases.
I speak for the dead...and Rylee talks to the living.
Seems like a fair enough trade to me.

Jazelle Handoush | 2014

While Others Shine [Six Word Story]

Some memories cut
like broken glass.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Even If It Hurts [Six Word Story]

I'm not sorry
for loving you.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Scribbler [Poetry]

What a lonely art;
that of a scribbler and ink stainer.
An artist speaks of the beauty
his subject possesses as he
immortalizes her upon a canvas,
and a musician laments to all
who hear,
but a writer speaks
only to her page.
This ink I stain is lonely, 
this page blank without my company,
this art requiring on myself, 
a thoughtful mind,
and a means to scribe.
What a lonely art, that of a scribbler,
but with every word you, dear reader, see,
I find myself less alone.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Falsified Security [Haiku]

I’d rather be safe
in your arms, lulled by your voice,
than by siren songs.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

But Never My Mind [Six Word Story]

My heart has
always been yours.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Imperfect Fit [Six Word Story]

I'd like to refund 
this heart.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

2am You [Poetry]

We all write about a 2am somebody.
When the rest of the world melts away, scared off
by the sight of the moon, that someone who steps out
from the shadows to save you.
But I don't want a 2am someone who only seems
to appear when the world is dark.
Selfishly, I want a somebody
who wants to be there despite sunrise or set,
who doesn't scare off because of shadows or
who only appears in the light.
We all write about a 2am somebody...
but I just want you.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Harrow Hatchling [Poetry]

If I told you there was a bird entrapped within
the bars of a shining, silver cage, would you think
her trapped, or well-off?
Would you leave her there to sing her tunes,
the saddest maudlin melodies, and think them a
stunning sound?
Is she blessed to have so much, though
never permitted to fly beyond
the limitations of her harrowing cage?
Do you see the beauty of the bird
and hear a sweet song, or the image of a girl
crying out she's treated wrong?

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Monster May I [Seven Word Story]

What did I
fall in love with?

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Hours Abandoned [Six Word Story]

I've wasted time
thinking of you.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

While Forgotten [Six Word Story]

I miss you.
That's my mistake.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Surviving Without Sun [Prose]

My dear, what life you bring to a world so deterred with death. When shadows lick at the curtains and tease my toes you splash color into this room with breathless vibrance. You've become a survivor after I've killed so many others; you've yet to wilt or dare leave me. I hope you've made roots here, and consider this home a place you can grow. I know I'm a torturous host, denying you water and locking you within these walls, but I know what's best. Sunlight won't nutrify you nearly as much as my company. So survive, little houseplant.

You're the last of your kind here.

[Prompt: Tell a houseplant why it needs to live.] 

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Here, Here, & Here [Prose]

"I fell in love with you," he whispered, hardly believing that after all this time, he was finally saying the words aloud. He kept his eyes on the cloud spotted sky above, his hands tangled in the dewy grass.

Michael Mayes, 21 and head-over-heels heart-taken. It was impossible to focus his attention elsewhere; his thoughts all starred the blue eyed brunette from Oregon he had only met months ago. He had just returned from a two year tour in Iraq, and she from a school trip to Italy. A crowded airport, hundreds of people, thousands of luggage items, and theirs just happened to be the same one.

And when their hands had touched grabbing for the suitcase they each thought was their own, he knew. Michael had never been certain of anything in his life. But a single touch, a single glance, a single apologetic smile, and he was hooked.

"I know it sounds cliche," he said, rushing to get his words out before she could respond to his confession. "But I knew, right in the middle of the Portland International Airport, that you were the one, Rae. You were the girl." Michael watched a ladybug fly in a twirling, unpredictable pattern before it finally landed on a blade of grass, reminding him of the way his head had spun that day. He rolled onto his back, mentally making patterns in the clouds above as he spoke.

"Our hands touched, and I felt it. Right through me. Not here," he said, resting his palm against his heart, "But here." He pointed to his forehead, where a scar rested above his right eyebrow.

"They told me that after they removed the bullet, there would be some weird side effects," he said, tracing a finger over the scar. "But the only effect it ever had was that day. When I saw the future we would have together. I never told you, it sounds insane, I know, but..." he smiled, remembering the images that passed his mind's eye that day. "I saw how happy we would be, and I knew. Rae, I knew.

"I wasn't supposed to survive that surgery. They said there was a one in five shot I wouldn't end up brain damaged. A vegetable, the doc said. But when I woke up post-op, my nurse smiled, said it'd been a success. She said I must've had a guardian angel watching me, a reason to stay.

"That was supposed to be you, Rae." Michael rolled off his back to stare at the headstone in front of him. The cold marble was smooth under his fingertips as he traced her name, but all he wanted to do was smash it into a million pieces.

It wasn't fair, this shouldn't have happened. He was the one who had gone off to war. He was the one who shouldn't have lived.

A drunk driver and a rain slick road thought otherwise.

But he wasn't bitter. Not anymore.

"You've taught me so much, Rae," he said, his hand never leaving the headstone. He could feel her, her presence, resting her hand upon his shoulder as she always did when he was overcome with emotions he didn't want to express. But she couldn't pull Michael into her arms, couldn't kiss his forehead as she always did, couldn't whisper reassuring words that would bring him back to a better reality.

"So many people are telling me to move on. That I'm young, and that there's so much to life. That forgetting would ease the pain. But I will never," the word almost escaped his lips in anger, and he fought to control the shaking that was rattling his bones. He calmed himself, brushing away the tears that had escaped his eyes with the back of his palm. "I won't forget. I could never forget. Not you, not all you've changed in me.

"Here, here, and here," he pointed to his heart, and mind and ears.

"You'll always be, babe. I promise. The spark you sent through me, that'll live on, in me."

He kissed the top of the marble gravestone, as she would his forehead, and brushed his hand against the letters of her name once more.

"Rest, my Raven. I'll see you in the sky."

© 2012 | Jazelle Handoush

Stealing Stars [Prose]

Mission Log. Day 13: The scars on my hands are a reminder of the past four years. When I decided to set off towards the stars and attempt this so called career as an astronaut, I knew what the job would entail, but not the cost of my work. The craft has changed; there is no longer need for exploration as there once was. Afters years of studying space's history and discoveries, planning and practicing, I'm finally on my own mission. 

It was once said that possibilities are endless, but energy isn't, and neither are the possible solutions to our dwindling reserve. My mission isn't simple, but its certainly worthwhile: steal stars from the sky to add to Earth's supply. Each star is approximately 1.5 x 10^28 kilowatts, comparable to 1.5 million solar panels acquiring energy for three cycles.

Mission Log. Day 35: I believe I've chosen my target star well. According to the scanners, this stars, so named 生存 (shēngcún), will suffice our Earth's civilization for centuries. For no, I'll flat in the space between stars; reaching Shēngcún and acquiring it properly will take some time.

Mission Log. Day 48: I wonder if people realize how brilliantly the dim light they see in the night sky above them dazzles. The smoky haze that clouds our atmosphere makes it difficult to see the true effulgence the stars sparkle with. To think within a year's time, Shēngcún will be mere stardust, filling the tanks of our transports and powering every light the city needs to blind the night. 

Mission Log. Day 64: When I signed up for this mission, I was unaware of the disservice I would be doing to the world. I was told I was adding our survival, but in doing so, I'm destroying one civilization to aid another. Stealing stars from the sky, carrying them out of space and watching them crushed to stars dust, all so we can turn on the light. 

No wonder we're in the dark in the first place. 

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Paint-Stained Leftie [Prose]

He always adored the way she held the brush in her left hand, lazily spinning it between her fingers without a care for the flecks of paint that kissed her skin like aquamarine freckles. She had a six sense, able to find an entire story kept captive within a blank canvas, and she swore it her artistic obligation to bring it into view. And like a mirage, slow forming from a dusty infinity of nothing, it always seems a trick made of the mind, at first. A wisp rises, just a single streak that stretches against the canvas to start the story.

And his little artist might purse her lips before continuing, her cheeks pulling inward to show off her bone structure. He knows that's what must be there, bone, but to think she's built of broken rainbows and unimaginable shades simply makes more sense. Her skin is already stained with so much, both past scars and pigmentations from paint splatter. He imagines the rose work that occasionally clouds her flawless face with a blush must be painted on as well, another wisp that couldn't be contained. As she tucks her brush behind her ear, a wet pecked kiss of tangerine licks at her hair, adding some color to the almost winter white strands. Seeing the contained smile against his lips, she reaches towards this spot, her fingertips caressing the paint like her brush does the canvas.

A tender touch between lovers to make an otherwise unrealized masterpiece.

She laughs, the soundtrack to his life, and dips her fingers in a swatch of neon green. Her fingers run through her hair, leaving waves of color in their wake. Reaching the end of the strands, she curls her fingers, ringlets of greens and tangerines bouncing against her sun-colored bare shoulders.

And then a look takes to her eyes, a blue that changes shade so often, he'd gladly suffocate within them just to define the name. A similar swatch sits near her easel, her fingertips dipping in for a taste.

His hair, and heart, would never be the same.

Not with this paint-stained leftie keeping his life in such a vivid coloring.

A reminder that every mess has its masterpiece.

You shouldn't be so concerned with the clean up.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Crowded Fireflies [Prose]

Hundreds of bodies, cold and slick from standing in the rain for the past hour, pressed together in attempt to get even an inch closer to the stage. The crowd buzzed with each individual voice convinced it could talk over the next, causing any conversation to be inaudible beyond a few syllables. Four glittering disco balls spun lazily overhead, reflecting off the neon stage lights and casting a trail of multi-colored squares across the walls.

Standing on my tiptoes to see over the heads of the vast crowd, I watched the crew continue their set change. The mysterious black-clothed figures took their time as they fiddled with setting dials and tapped on microphones, often sending a deafening screech through the speakers. I dropped my heels with a sigh, landing on the soggy soles of my cerulean flats.

It had already been twenty minutes since the opening act had left the stage, and the buzzing was growing louder with mixed anticipation and impatience. My arms folded over my chest, I rubbed a palm against the black, see-through sleeve of the top I wore, though the friction did little to warm me. 

All around, girls tried to fix their frizzy hair and rain streaked make-up they had spent hours preening before queuing for the concert in the rain. Some used their phone cameras as mirrors instead of losing their spot in the crowd by heading to the restroom. In a group of guys to my left, a tall blonde shook his long hair back and forth, spraying his friends around him like a dog after an unexpected bath.

A hand suddenly clasped my shoulder, and I bit my tongue to silence a girlish yelp no one would have heard anyway.

“Jess, when’s the Firefly Guy coming?” Morgan yelled in my ear, the stench of straight alcohol hitting my nose like a strong right-hook. I tried to step back, instead knocking into a tall brunette in the process. My friend grabbed my shoulder, pulling me through the crowd towards the bar, deaf to my protests. Her long, dirty blonde hair lashed at my face as she turned back to flash me a smile, stopping only once we had found our mutual friend at the end of the bar, two clear drinks waiting in front of her.

“Water for you,” Kanu said, winking at Morgan as she passed the glass. “But none for you, little duck. You’re already a bit wet.” Kanu patted my head as if I was some ignorant child, and the girls laughed, both oblivious to my annoyance.

#

After a semester struggling to make new friends in a foreign city, I was relieved at the thought of familiar faces. Though we had been inseparable in high school, Kanu and Morgan had left to the same college, leaving me alone. Hearing the girls would be visiting Orlando for the weekend, I spent the time finding alternative means of entertainment besides the usual tourist haunts, but it was evident as soon as I arrived at their hotel to pick them up that I had made a mistake in my choice of venue. Leaving me in the car for twenty minutes while they “got ready,” the girls finally stumbled into the back of my Honda, both of their usually pale faces flushed with a rosy pink. Giddy and giggling, they ignored my hellos, instead continuing their conversation about the best clubs to hit after they were done watching over “little duck.” Both had graduated from Florida State the previous spring, the three-year age difference between us meaning that “little duck” was titled the default-designated driver for the night.

#

What fun. Looks like I’m the one responsible for the “watching over” tonight. I glanced back towards the stage to see if the crew was done yet, another screech of the mic answering for me.

“Where’s Firefly Guy?” Morgan asked again, nodding towards the now vacant stage. A dark haired girl wearing an owl shirt shot Morgan a glare as she left with a soda, and I shook my head. I had purchased the tickets after asking the girls if they were fans of the band, but it appeared that a free concert trumped their musical preference.

There goes fifty bucks I’m sure they’d have better spent drinking. I eyed their glasses, realizing they were both already drained.

Kanu continued spinning back and forth on the barstool, searching the end of her long, brown braid for split ends. Morgan traced a finger over the countertop, creating faces from the water ring her glass had left behind.

“Just stay here,” I said, though neither looked up from her riveting activity. I snaked my way back through the crowd, ducking elbows before finding my previous spot beside the rowdy group of college boys. Unfortunately, a skinny brunette in cheetah print stilettos stood where I had before, her heels rooted to the spot. Finding enough space to stand behind them, I took my Nikon from the camera case hanging on my shoulder, occupying myself by finding the optimum settings for concert photos.

An old picture appeared on the screen, taken a year ago during my summer spent in Jacksonville. Morgan and Kanu had grabbed me to stand between them for a photo on the beach, the three of us wearing genuine smiles against summer tans.

I turned to look back at the bar, seeing them between gaps in the crowd. They were chatting up the bartender, laughing and still oblivious to my absence. My finger clicked “delete.”

I’m entirely alone in a crowded room.

A hush fell over the crowd, the buzzing dying down as if a hive of bees had been inoculated, chamber by chamber. Stretching onto my tiptoes again, I watched as four figures walked onto the stage, silhouettes against the shining blue lights. They each stood before their respective instruments, tuning and warming up as the blue beams of light quickly changed their aim to the audience. I clicked on my camera, holding it straight overhead and pushing the zoom all the way forward. Mic in hand, Adam Young entered from stage right, and the drums began to beat strong enough to shake the earth.

“How you doing tonight, Orlando?” Adam yelled into the mic. My camera managed to capture the smile on his face, despite my position in the back of the room, two feet from the edge of the crowd. The audience suddenly stirred to life, awoken from a momentary slumber as we all screamed in reply. The drums pounded stronger, matching the rhythm of a hundred excited heartbeats before the drummer surrendered his solo to an accompaniment by neighboring bass and guitar. Soon more joined the chorus, keyboard and vocals providing their own flavors to the dish that was Owl City, served sweet to the entire crowd.

I listened as the band played one of their newer songs, smiling as I tried to savor every detail of the moment. Each of my senses gave in; though I couldn’t see the stage, I could see the music’s beauty, taste every tantalizing note, feel it snake through my very veins. Though the song was a track from an album that had only been released a week before, the house knew every word, every infliction, every note. Onstage, Adam’s hands were flying, the music visibly extending from soul to arms and reaching out to every member of the audience to touch. I mouthed the words, swaying with the music. As soon as the first song ended, another began without so much as a pause; the melodies melded together as if they seamlessly belonged with one another all along.

I pushed onto my tiptoes, catching only glimpses of the stage. “Hey! Can’t see?” one of the guys in front of me asked, pointing to my sore arms so I could understand despite the music’s sheer volume and the screaming crowd. I shook my head, rubbing the back of my neck with a painful grimace. He smiled, and I recognized him as the one who sprayed his friends with rainwater earlier. He stepped aside, offering his spot in front of his friends, all who loomed at least two feet over me. I took the spot without hesitation, thankful for a moment of kindness in a room of strangers.

Except they weren’t; not a single person in that room was a stranger once the music started. We had made one another’s acquaintance over lyrics we each felt even a slight connection to. Our souls recognized these words, each individual note creating a binding between us. Without realizing it, we had a kinship, the melody like branches that extended our family tree to reach through cities, even beyond oceans and unconnected countries. Except there was a connection; well-woven words and an understanding of these songs provided a peek at each of our individual stories.

The music slowed, shifting into a song I knew too well. The drums were almost silent, keeping beat as the pianist took the spotlight. Overhead, blue and yellow lights flickered in and out, the crowd taking a collective breath we’d all been holding. That song lasted a mere moment, so easy to miss between all the others. The lyrics, two lone lines, were a shooting star in a sparkling sky; blink and we’d have missed it entirely. All other senses broke beyond the sound of the piano’s cry, in mourning for our attention.

The music faded away as our moment of grieving neared its end, and I watched through my camera screen, focusing on Adam’s face. His expression was remorseful, and I was sure that many of the faces in the crowd, including my own, matched his.

It was only for an instant, that silence and mutual mourning, before a very familiar melody picked up, spreading an infection of excitement through us all. I looked back, the boy who’d offered his spot smiling back at me. On stage, rows of fairy lights flickered in and out, the disco balls making it appear as though dozens of little bugs were blinking all around the room.

But that was much more than “The Firefly Guy’s” final song. As the music itself twinkled along with the lights, I canvassed the room, my camera still acting as an all-seeing eye. Tracing over the heads of the crowd, I didn’t see a hundred individuals sharing a space for a concert.

A single entity, well-formulated notes, and an amalgamation of instruments held the power to awaken each individual soul in that crowded room and unite us all. But we weren’t individuals; together we were ten million fireflies that lit up the world. At first we were little, flickering on our own, but as the final notes sounded, I realized we were one light. Even as fireflies.

The band members waved as they left the stage, the crowd screaming and cheering in goodbye. For a moment, Adam lingered, his gaze tracing over the crowd.

Finally, he took the mic in his hand and said, “As a nobody from nowhere, from the heart, thank you,” following his band-mates off stage.

One of the guys beside me, barely audible above the screams, was the first to voice what a hundred hearts were screaming.

“One more song.”

No one heard him other then his friends and myself, but that was enough. The guy who’d given me his spot clasped his friend’s shoulder and chanted with him.

“One more song.” I added my voice, each of his friends providing to the collective as well. It spread, another infection that attacked us all, leaking from the back of the room and rolling forward, picking up victims and volume as it went.

Suddenly we were a collective, a collaborated entity that formed one voice.

The music started again, louder this time.

I was part of this crowded room; a sea of people brought together by a single common interest.

“We’re burning bright, as we all unite...Don’t let the fire die.”

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

Muted Myself [Poetry]

I'm never 'the one who got away,'
nor am I a fish in the sea worth catching.
I'm another lover unloved, so many
scars on my skin from being betrayed,
from unsent letters screaming at me with papercuts,
from the weapon of unspoken words aimed at my own heart.
I'm never the one who got away because
I never stepped forward in the first place.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Nevermore [Six Word Story]

Its always just
'almost'
with us.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Survival Instincts [Poetry]

I've gotten too busy
searching for comfort in my own skin
to find a place I fit
within the intricate web of society.
I try to belong but simply get stuck
in one edge of the web or another
amongst spiders who want to drink me dry
until I find a web
where I'm no longer placed as the prey.
When I'm there
will I try not to be a predator on the innocent
or is that the only way to survive?

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Invisible Lines [Six Word Story]

Always just a friend;
nothing more.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

You're My Lead Suspect [Six Word Story]

Conducting an
investigation
into stolen hearts.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Moon’s Shadow Holds Secrets [Poetic Pieces]

She's the dark side 
of the moon;
she's a mystery and a muse.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Message Failure [Six Word Story]

Some messages 
are better left
unsent.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Blood Ties [Excerpt]

"You get that 'lost in deep space' look about you sometimes. Whatcha thinking about, Pidge?"

Alaska barely heard him. Her fingers placed with the two wedding bands around her neck, and a slow sigh escaped her lips. Nox watched her for a moment longer before understanding, then wrapped his arm around her and hugged Alaska close. He pressed a light kiss against her temple, then left the room to allow Alaska to reminisce. She missed them, that was obvious.

Every time she got that far off look, though, Nox swore he lost her a little more.

Too many people gone. Too many chips in the porcelain.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Ways She Bleeds [Poetry]

She wears a stoic shell
Impenetrable
One she sheds only
Within the words
She spills as tears upon page
And in the paint she bleeds
In retrospect shades on canvas
Kept unclean.
In the notes her voice flies for
In lyrics she leaves with empty unanswered
In bright lights that shine every elsewhere
In-between the pages she's never read
She sheds everywhere, in all art forms
But seeing her body
They see a shell grotesque
Cracked
Contrived
Instead of all the masterpieces she leaves inside.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Con Artist [Poetry]

You make an art
out of attraction.
Luring lady moths
to you like a fervid flame
to burn their wings
and scorch their hearts horridly.
You break through
the security of ribcages
to steal slow-beating hearts
only to shatter them
when trying to tug
your hands through the bars.
A con artist
who has mastered attraction,
still making an art
of love lasting.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Simplicity of Me [Poetry]

Don't paint me
as a hero or a damsel;
don't make me out helpless
or something special
in your mind.
Don't pretend I'm my scars
make me a warrior
or see them as picture
me weak.
Don't conjure up a story
based on my skin or personality.
Just don't pretend you know me.
See me as a woman,
a man,
a person,
fighting for something.
Fighting for happiness,
a chance beyond loneliness,
or the simplicity of a smile,
but don't look at me and see
any more or less than I could possibly be.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Career You Qualify For [Six Word Story]

Heartbreakers destroy
from the inside out.

(c) 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Midnight Mistress [Poetry]

You're the dark side of the moon;
both a mystery and a muse.
With a crescent smile upon your lips
And stars in your eyes that sparkle
Eons out of reach.
So much left unseen
Of your midnight-cloaked being
Yet knowing there's still stone
On the other side
Leaves me a blind moth
Forced to find a flickering flame;
An uncontrolled attraction
As my body takes the lead
Waiting for an eclipse
To leave me breathless,
To shift the dark side into sight
And answer with inspiration.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

So Much More [Six Word Story]

I won't be
just another memory.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

You're Not Excused [Poetic Pieces]

'Because I love you' 
isn't a reason.
It's an excuse.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Your Galactic Gaze [Poetic Prose]

You know every time I look at you, I lose myself just a little bit more? As though your gaze holds an entire galaxy just for me. And when the black hole in your pupil threatens to pull me in, I want to let go and allow the suffocation to start. Have you drown me in the daydream of what we could be.

It would be easier, sinking into the stars I find in your eyes and make meals from the constellations, the distinct taste of Bellatrix tickling my tongue. We could cuddle in the Big Dipper, just dive in and drift off, counting planets as they pass. You would pleasure me with quick kisses that sprinkle stardust against my skin, making each spot you’ve marked shine for all to see. Loosen the asteroid belt that separates our sins and I’ll pull you in. And when comets collide, the sky will streak with the story of you and I.

But only for tonight, star-crossed lover. My heart is only in this retrograde spin for a single night. And while I’d gladly spend it drowning in the black hole of your galactic gaze, suffocating in a love story that suddenly makes sense, I can’t stay. So show the sky all the ways celestials shatter stars, and when I’m out of your orbit again, I’ll watch. I’ll touch the stardust tattoos you’ve stained me with, lick my lips with lust for Bellatrix, and tighten the asteroid belt I wear as a reminder:

Star-crossed lovers only love one star ever.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

You Can't Hide [Poetry]

We used to build forts and hide beneath blankets
as though thin fabric was enough to block out the world.
We'd stick to the shadows and watch the silhouettes
that walked passed, pretending they didn't notice the fortress,
when truly they saw our attempts to escape reality childish.
They knew of the impossibility, because instead of pillow forts,
they curled into the blankets on their beds and wept,
desperate to escape the world when they
couldn't even escape themselves.
We saw monsters under the bed and banished them
by wielding flashlights, allowing night lights to stand guard
beside our beds, unaware that our solitude fed the monsters,
not fear. They pretended they weren't afraid of the dark only
because they knew of the monsters that thrived in the light.
So when the sun came up, and we felt secure, safe,
the adults would open their eyes and sigh,
wishing they could build a fort
and hide.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Endless Masquerade [Six Word Story]

Your mask
has faded to skin.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Heart Highs and Lows [Poetry]

The only difference between
falling in love and falling apart
is the type of high 
we find ourselves on.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Astronomer [Haiku]

I'm just still searching
for someone who sees the stars
hidden within me

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Blessed By The Galaxy [Haiku]

Tonight I watch the
stars imploding, raining down
stardust upon me.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Morning Brew [Poetry]

Coffee 

steamy, bittersweet 

swirling, warming, awakening 

mornings, heat, sugar, cream 

comforting, loving 

You. 

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Honest Silence [Poetry]

We haven’t spoken 
since I asked 
that you never tell me 
another lie.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

I Am A Poet [NaPoWriMo Day 1]

It would seem, sadly, that I am ink stained.
The darkness has stuck to my skin until it dissolved within,
seeping to saturate my veins before making a mess of my soul.
My typewriter requires it as ink, so something with meaning might
find its way onto a page and stay.
It takes the chaos in my mind and makes sense of the matter,
so much so that it almost resembles actual art.
The sadness isn't that I'm seemingly cursed, stained from skin to soul,
but that to be a poet and stain the world, I'm required
to open up a vein, so every soul
is ink stained.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

NaPoWriMo [Prompts]

I will be participating in National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) this year. Here is a list of prompts a fellow writer sent me. Please feel free to participate; in fact, I encourage it! I'd love to see your takes on these prompts. Good luck, ink stainers!

Day 1: I am a poet.
Day 2: I own my flesh.
Day 3: Tell a lie.
Day 4: Love through letters.
Day 5: A thousand kisses deep.
Day 6: Monochromatic fears.
Day 7: You have 7 days to live.
Day 8: Glow in the dark stars
Day 9: Misplaced bones
Day 10: Write as if you are a body part.
Day 11: Wake the dead.
Day 12: Love bites
Day 13: I never think about ____ anymore.
Day 14: Find me.
Day 15: 7 Deadly Sins
Day 16: 3AM coffee
Day 17: Kiss the stars on her arms.
Day 18: ‘Last night—’
Day 19: What is your sign? Write about it.
Day 20: Galaxy skin
Day 21: What is tangled up in your heartstrings?
Day 22: A fight in a stairwell
Day 23: A forbidden desire
Day 24: Stitched the words into my heart
Day 25: Cross-hatched skin
Day 26: Artist fingers
Day 27: Holding up the universe
Day 28: Dig deep into your chest, pull out your heart.
Day 29: Converse with Monsters.
Day 30: Are my words poetic enough for you?

Someone Else's Story [Six Word Story]

I told you I had a secret.
You told me to write it down.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Days Go On [Six Word Story]

All I ever feel
is tired.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

You're Eons Away [Six Word Story]

I find galaxies
in your gaze.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Success By Support [Haiku]

I'm too tired to keep going.
Tell me, 'You've got this; don't quit.'
Maybe then I'll survive.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

And Heartbeats [Six Word Story]

Our distance's between
thunder and lightning.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Like Moths To A Heartfelt Flame [Prose]

A haze takes to the sky, making stars seem like shadows. Moths make lazy spirals around what little light they can find, as though kissing quick fleeting flames. If they come too close, hold a love of too much passion, they burn fierce with the pain only a heart knows. Not much else can be seen, but these blurry-eyed stains that feign as stars, and the moths that wish to reach them.

I stand at the windowsill, the air so frigid it tickles my breath with ghosts. They take to my tongue and freeze the words that reside there, mapping each tastebud for all the stories they could tell. My fingertips reach to the glass, leaving the swirls of my own stories like see-through stains. If each finger is a chapter, the ending barely seems worth reading. My pinky holds the shortest story, but if you study it, you see the intricacy. And the secrets.

The words "I love you" fog up the glass, written not by my hand but by an unheard heart, but I shatter them instead of stare. The shards stick to my skin, stab, as blood drops take to beat the ground. Like a bass taking on a tempo on its own, it takes my eardrums and barricades away the rest of the world. This is the mild personification of a broken heart; someone else is battered, bruised, bleeding, yet somehow I'm still standing.

I shake my hand, distort the biting as glass shards sprinkle the ground, my own pain a minuscule moment compared to the heart that wrote on my window.

He feared speaking too loud, so he whispered it against the glass, a haze taking to the sky and my heart. And instead of hearing him out, I suffocated on the idea of what love might be like. I felt its shackles remove all movement from my wrists, felt the fear of the noose around my neck made not from rope but realizations. Realizing I'm human enough to be loved, to might love.

To hurt something horrid.

The wind licks at my skin, and the fog fights its way forward, but I don't step beyond its reach. Instead I stand at the windowsill and watch the moths dance dangerously. Knowing we can be burned doesn't keep us from reaching for a flame.

Knowing some scars never heal does.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

Breakfast At Tiffany's [Poetry]

Audrey stood at the window
staring in towards what dazzled
as the morning sun shined behind her.
Basic breakfast, coffee and pastry,
the glass a barrier between her
and a lifestyle without limiting.
Steam twirled up with the sunrise
from her soon-cold cup
but she still stood.
Breakfast at Tiffany's became a reminder
of something better:
a life that shined brighter than morning light.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Shooting Star Syndrome [Poetry]

If my life is this big black sky
You're just a simple shooting star;
Fleeting, bright at first sight
But ultimately fading,
Completely out of light.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Wishful Thinking [Six Word Story]

Stay here with me;
don't leave.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

They're Streaking Your Skin [Poetic Pieces]

Are those stars
in your eyes
or tears
you want to hide?

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

To Breathe Again [Poetry]

Teach me how to be strong.

How to breathe again.

I'm not sure my lungs know how to filter in and out air anymore.

The process is just too tedious.

Isn't this what CPR is for?

Maybe I need you to breathe life back into me,

before my lungs can manage on their own.

Maybe, finally, when our lips meet,

maybe then I won't feel so alone.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Temporary Fix [Six Word Story]

Broken heart for rent.
Needs mending.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Its Trial and Error [Six Word Story]

Falling in love
isn't a mistake.
© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

My Love Was Honest and Ignorant [Six Word Story]

Love isn't a lie.
You are.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

A Living Ghost [Poetry]

Lightning Celebrates Lovers [Haiku]

“Someone once told me
That the thunder echoes heartbeats.Love must be a storm.”

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Different [Poetic Prose]

If you look carefully, you’ll see a patch of red disturbing the night sky strands of my hair. They’re breeding, spreading against my scalp to add something of a shine against my otherwise stark dark. You see them? Right there. Standing out. Such an annoyance.

I planned to cover them with ink, dye them back into submission to match the black of the neighboring strands. Take these unique streaks and erase them entirely, so you can’t tell there’s a difference at all. Dark and dapper like the rest, so the entire night sky sea there is one entity, not individualized strands that sit upon my head. You wouldn’t be able to set or see them apart. All alike.

But those ruby renegades starting to grow on me, quite literally. They had a special shine to them, like a curling calligraphy against indifferent ink. They streaked my night sky with a dusky crimson comet, a rare and unplanned entity to add a gleam to things.

If you look carefully, you’ll see a patch of red disturbing the night sky strands of my hair. Not a thread sits the same amongst its neighbors, unique and undiluted by their difference.

You see them? Right there. Standing out.

Standing out to shine.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

Truth Is I Always Do [Six Word Story]

I pretend
I don't miss you.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Three Words On Repeat [Poetry]

When I say

"I love you,"

I'm not following a fad

Or repeating words with disregard

For their meaning.

Those eight letters barely contain

The way my heart quakes

But I say them anyway.

So you can understand

That sometimes you suffocate

All other words from me

Leaving me with those three only.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

The Tables Tell All [Poetic Pieces]

There are stories
in the coffee stains we leave behind.

© 2012 | Jazelle Handoush

Addicted To A Ruining [Poetry]

Though my blood becomes sludge

From the poison you place in my heart,

Though my tongue has turned black

From the angry truths I've never told,

Though my skin has shriveled

From your every acid touch,

I always take you back

Because you're that kind of drug.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

You Make Me Breathless [Six Word Story]

How do people who are 
in love breathe easily 
when I suffocate?

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

What Lovers Mean [Poetry]

Love never made much sense to me; the concept
creates a disconnect between what we
say and what we mean.

The first time, my best friend spoke it between
sobs, as her tears soaked my shirt and the sun set.
The second time was my first boyfriend, as if two
teens concerned with the right angles of paralleled parking
know enough about chemistry.

Those three words seemed like a pit of quicksand to me;
each time I said it, each time I squirmed, it pulled me
down deeper, a slow suffocation.

The third was a lie to a dying man, as if I was the
wish he made.

Each one said 'love,' but I perceive they meant 'want'
or 'need.' Their hearts weren't beating beyond their chests;
they wouldn't bleed for me.

Lovers never quite say what they mean.

The words became an infinity, and unescapable loop 
love seems to catch me in.

When we travelled in metaphors, 'I love you,'
'Forever,' and 'Always' became metaphors too.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

I Can't Even Save Myself [Six Word Story]

I will not be
anyone's angel.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Self-Seen Beauty [Six Word Story]

She broke mirrors
trying to see.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

When There Aren't Words [Poetry]

Is there something I'm supposed to say?

Its at the tip of my tongue, but the words taste all wrong.

How I wish I knew what phrase would freeze your pain.

Instead, I can only sit beside you, try to steal your sadness,

Stitch your sullen stretched lips into a smile

And remind you

Even without words, I know,

I feel it too.

I'm right beside you.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

The Survivors [Poetry]

The Strongest People [Poetic Prose]

The strongest people are the ones nobody realizes are fighting.

They wear masks to shield their pain from other eyes, stretching lips into convincing Cheshire cat grins and eyes wide with wonder. These are the people who step in to comfort you, though no one notices the scars they wear on skin, hearts, and soul. They make up a race of survivors, of spirits too often put down and trampled on. Yet they stand back up, never allowing another pair of eyes to see the stampede’s footprints on their backs.

The strongest people are the ones nobody realizes are fighting, bleeding, screaming silently, and yet still living.

They suffer in silence, instead of shouting to the cosmos of all the ways they’re scared and scarred. When other’s expect society to run towards them with open arms, to heal their wounds and scatter their tears, this unseen population of Strong and Silent remain zip-lipped. They believe that backbone and tough skin will get them by, help them survive, and they’re unaware that it’s a lie.

The strongest people in the world have scratched up souls, but they don’t allow anyone to see.

Its a population of you, them, and me.

And we’re convinced we need to suffer alone, in the shadows. We’re not hiding, we just don’t want to be a burden. We sit in silence while others suffocate us with their woes, though they don’t listen to ours.

They don’t ask.

So here is to ever member of the Strong and Silent. Here is to the boys and girls who think they are alone, unknowing we are a full society of secret keepers. Here is to those of backbone and tough skin, too often reminded of the painful world we’re in.

I’m here. I’ll listen. I’ll see your scars and try to heal them with my own.

Just know…you’re not alone.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

Love's Like That [Six Word Story]

Somedays I get lost in you.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush 

Cupid's No Angel [Haiku]

Unsheathe your bow, aim,
and pierce my heart; that's less pain
than love and leaving.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Or Are They Stars [Six Word Story]

You put sparks in my eyes.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Perpetual Bliss [Haiku]

The world stopped turning
and yet our hearts kept beating;
love will never cease.

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Side Effect of Scars [Six Word Story]

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

Down With The Ship [Haiku]

If it traps you in

My lungs, weighs me down with love

I'll sink with our ship

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

Prolonged Suffering [Poetry]

Sometimes he thinks he's broken, and doesn't know how to 

repair the pieces. He's never been able to handle a needle and thread,

so stitching together his shattered heart seems like an illogical solution.

There's superglue, but the shards don't seem to want to stick. That's when he realized

there's no easy fix.

You can't mend a broken heart because it seems like the next step

of the process. A friend or lover might demolish it and damn the thought

of the damage they've done, but that's only the prelude to step one.

He held on too tight when she shattered his heart, as if clinging to her skin

would convince her to stay and fix the fissures. He can still smell

the intoxicating aroma of her perfume and bad attitude; the latter

attracted him to the challenge. Left with pieces and pictures of what they

once were, he curled up into a ball against the glass, letting them scrape

at his skin even more.

To bend a broken heart, step one is to stand up and decide to restart,

instead of prolonging the suffering by remaining attached to the misery. 

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

The Siren's Song [Haiku]

He fell in love with

A beautifully see-through

Soul that screamed sorrow.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

Oozing Black [Poetic Pieces]

There is beauty in dark things

If you look past the evil they bleed.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

No Blank Slate [Poetry]

The night sky hasn't changed; it remains ink stained, every night, despite its

disappearance during the day.

The sun still shines, moon sparkles alongside the stars, and the air isn't altered. 

Humans shed their skin and take on a fresh layer, but it doesn't provide a

blank slate to start over. We are sun, stars, and the night sky; though

chemically we run through cycles of metamorphosis, we keep our names

and stay ourselves. The change is slow, but we don't shed ourselves

entirely. A blank slate still maintains what was there before, though

it appears faint and out of focus.

Who you once were still remains, though faintly, but that's not where I focus.

Who you once were is only a portion of who you are now, of the who 

you are that makes you mine.

The past is only a portion of your present;

don't focus too much on lost time.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

Made Into A Muse [Poetic Prose]

She had a messy mind and a patterned past but that was alright; it meant there were stories he could pull from her soul and streak against his empty pages. She would whisper in his ears all her worries and woes, and his fingertips would collide with typewriter keys in a haste to share with the world her tales. Not a single word went unwritten, and for that she was grateful. For with ever phrase of dialogue and demeanor he pulled from her veins,  she was something less of a storyteller and made more into a muse. And she didn't mind this at all, for she knew she'd fade either way.

At least with her words across his page, she'd be solidified for all time. She would be renewed, each time she was read, and would never fade too far from the mind. She smiled sadly, thinking this, dipped down from behind his shoulder to give him a kiss, but her lips never met the stubbled skin of his cheek. With one last line, she whispered her goodbyes to the shadows, and became a mist the way only a muse could; always there, never seen, occasionally heard.

His fingertips kept the beat on their own accord, spinning the story of a girl no one knew. But somehow, he loved her. His heart swelled at the thought of her. A tickle toyed against his left cheek, and he brushed a few fingertips over his skin, imaging a pair of rosy lips there instead of empty air.

He heard a whisper stolen by the wind, pulled the words from the atmosphere and continued writing of a girl he never knew.

"I lived only for you."

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

A Draft From The Windows [Poetry]

Bleeding hearts bolt-lock all the doors

So no one sees the scars,

Or try to shatter what's left of the beating pieces.

But they forget the windows won't shut;

Their eyes scream the sorrowed stories wordlessly

For all other hearts to see.

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush

When It Hurts So Much [Six Word Story]

How do you
know its love?

© 2014 | Jazelle Handoush

Reduce, Reuse, Restart [Prose]

Tick tick tick tick tick.

Exotic colors canvased the forest floor, shades so forgotten they no longer had a name in any remaining tongues. The branches of a weeping willow reached out as though to hug the sun, a secret love affair obvious only by the excited flutter of her leaves. The wind was jealous, and howled for attention.

The outdoor museum exhibit was bordered by bright lights that distorted the colors, stealing the sun’s job as though to say it was unneeded. The lights criss-crossed all around the willow's private meadow, some impersonating sunshine while others painted petals nameless hues. A young woman with hair like twisted tree bark stood beyond the exhibit, her fingers curled around the soft velvet rope that separated her from the meadow. The thick roots of the willow snaked towards her, fading beyond existence just before reaching the blockade. Signs of warning swung from the rope: "No trespassing!" "Do not disturb the hologram," "Be wary of wires."

Always protecting the tech.

This was a place of "Once Was;" a landmark memory of Before the world broke. Though she'd only visited on one occasion, her memory held tight to the only image of natural beauty she'd ever seen. It was unmatched by this attempt at imitation.

Her hand rose toward one of the drooping vines, remembering the way the leaves danced toward the soil in a flittering, twirling waltz. Her fingertips met static that sent a trail of goose bumps to race against her skin. The vine rippled at her touch, shattering like fragile glass to show a glimpse of reality behind the charade. A graveyard of shadows and secrets disappeared when she pulled her hand away.

Long curls fell around her porcelain skin, hiding the freckles that older souls said reminded them of stars that glittered the inky night sky Before. The thought of sparkling freckles was as foreign as the sight of the sun. 

She ducked beneath the velvet ropes, stepping through an invisible wall that send static to crawl over the entire span of her skin. Closing her eyes, she waited until the sensation faded, opening them again to see the magnitude of the hologram’s lie.

This meadow was once a gravesite of stumps, remaining as headstones to mark the skeletal roots of the trees that made this forest. The flowers, once a painting of pigments, were wilted and forgotten. The stream that bordered the meadow was now dry, twigs and roots the only reminder of life beneath the ashes. Those roots constituted an intersecting network that connected every being to the Earth. Young souls were supposed to be the spark of an idea to take on the worldwide obligation to save her.

To save Mother Nature.

“A single spark to feed the inferno,” she whispered, stepping closer to the center of the meadow. Instead of the graveyard of stumps she remembered, only a single headstone remained. The shade of the willow’s looming branches was absent, replaced by a smoggy sky. A man sat on the face of the stump, tracing his fingers over the scorched bark. 

Underfoot were the ashes of the last forest Earth ever knew, before Mother Nature’s own children beat her until broken.

“I’ve been here, once,” the woman whispered. The man didn’t raise his head, and she sat beside him against the stump of a willow that could no longer weep. “It was different then.” She sighed, running her fingertips over the cold bark in lazy spirals. “It was alive, then.”

The man said nothing, tracing his tongue over cracked lips as rough as the bark beneath their fingers.

“Do you want to know what happened to the world?”

She nodded, recalling his warning from years ago. This man knew how the world would end, and he informed everyone who would listen. They knew, they all knew. But they didn’t stop the damage until it was done.

Until all that remained were the ashes of an idea that something could be done.

“It wasn’t ignorance. They knew the numbers, compiled them into impressive charts, graphs drawn across the very plant life they swore to save. By 2013, they knew 80% of our forests were gone. Only 2.5% of the water remaining on our planet was available freshwater, and our world population would exceed its capacity within a matter of centuries.”

He sighed, raising his hands. Ten fingers, ten toes…multiplied until too many. “They knew the numbers and could riddle them over their tongues like nursery rhymes. It wasn’t ignorance.

It was arrogance.”

The woman pursed her lips, remembering the statistics they memorized in grade school. How much water was left, the rising population, the toxins they blew into the air. Unapplied to find a solution, the numbers were meaningless.

They knew so much, but did so little.

That didn’t mean they didn’t try.

“What about Earth Day? We made it an entire holiday, to celebrate this planet and promote environmental awareness. We—“

The man laughed; an imitation, like the hologram, of something once inspiring. He scratched at his wrist, where instead of a watch was an hourglass, stitched to a leather strap.

“We gave Earth one day. For one day, we had a masquerade of shame for the mess we’ve made. While the other 364, we let the air boil with our toxin emissions and fill waste into sky-high hills. But oh, don’t forget to reduce, reuse, recycle. Just today. Just one day.”

He scratched at his wrist again, and this time his companion noticed the sand spilling towards the bottom of the glass.

“We’re running out of time,” she whispered, eyes wide. He didn’t take notice when she stood, continuing as though uninterrupted. 

“Do you know the damage a day could do? Or the repair, if we gave Mother Nature the fighting chance. We should give her a People Day and let her poison us with the same smog we spilled into the air!”

The woman continued her way around the meadow, searching through the ashes for a phoenix.

All they needed was a spark.

“One day, we’ll be only bones, sent to sleep in her soil, and she’ll laugh and laugh at the beautiful irony.” He patted the willow’s stump, a sad smile crossing his lips. “That’s if there’s anything left of her to fight. Even a wilted rose has its thorns, but they’re easy enough to burn.

The world would live on without us.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” The woman stood up, pulling her hand from a pile of ashen twigs; the skeletal remains of an aged oak left near the long-dry river hadn’t been burnt. “The world needs her children to fight for her. To plant a new idea, let it establish roots, and have it spread until it touches everything.” She returned to the willow’s stump, running her hand along the wood. “You once told me these roots connected us, made it a worldwide obligation to save the world. Well, roots always start with a seed.”

She opened her palm, revealing a glossy acorn hidden beneath a war zone. The last seed.

The last chance.

“We start small and revive our meadow so people know what nature’s beauty really looks like. The trees we plant will aid in repairing the air, and maybe we’ll see the sun and stars again. We let our roots spread until there’s an entire army of protectors. The more minds, the more seeds that can sprout ideas for repairing our Earth. If every remaining body on Earth were to plant a single tree at some point in their lifetime, the world would be able to regenerate and survive. She could age so beautifully, naturally, if Mother Nature was taken care for by her children.

So what do you say, Father Time? Ready to help Mother Nature?”

There are waves. Moments where the tide pulls up onto shore and cleanses the mess the masses left behind. But then the wave pulls back and you can see it left as much as it took. Seashells, new ideas, changed minds.   

He laughed, twisting the hourglass on his wrist so the sand began to spill again. 

"Reduce, reuse, restart."

Tick tick tick tick tick…

© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush